The Fire and the Fury

By Anita Mills

The flames of rebellion—and desire—light up Medieval Scotland in this unforgettable romance from “a superlative writer!” (RT Book Reviews)
 
Elizabeth of Rivaux is the most beautiful—and defiant—noblewoman in all of Britain. After a disastrous first marriage left her with a secret shame, she refuses to accept any man. As royal factions war for England’s throne, she and her knights-in-arms go to Harlowe, the border castle that is her birthright. But out of the mists comes an ambush—and a dark, handsome, broadsword-wielding Scottish lord who saves her life.
 
Giles of Moray is immediately taken by the raven-haired, emerald-eyed beauty at his mercy, and as unbidden passion envelops them, Giles pledges his freedom and fiefdom to win Elizabeth’s heart. All he demands in return is for the forcefully independent Elizabeth to surrender—completely—to the power of their love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Dec 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626810365

Book preview

Prologue

Dunashie, Scotland:

September 28, 1127

The night was starless, the moon hazy behind a ceiling of clouds on this, the eve of Michaelmas. The column of mounted soldiers, their oddly assorted arms and mail bearing testimony to their mercenary service on both sides of the border, followed their youthful leader northward across the Cheviot Hills. Behind them, the iron-sheathed wooden wheels of two carts rumbled and rattled in the narrow ruts that passed for a road, and a dozen archers trod silently in their wake.

Ahead, the keep of Dunashie rose from the crest of an ancient mound that had been in place ever since the Romans bribed a Celtic chieftain to build it. Now it stood, an aged fortress upon the rubble, with but a single thatch-roofed tower executed in stone behind its timbered walls. The stagnant water of the surrounding ditch reflected the shadowy moon amid its scum.

The leader of the strange band, a tall, black-haired boy but one month and one day past his sixteenth birthday, raised his hand to signal a halt. Leaning forward in his stirrups, he drank in the hulking shadow of his disputed patrimony, the less than majestic symbol of his blood, then turned to the red-haired giant who rode at his side. Despite the dimness of the night, his black eyes glittered with an almost unholy light.

The fools sleep, he noted with grim satisfaction. They know not we are come.

Aye. William of Dunashie surveyed the boy he’d served and protected through a life of exile and attempted assassination with an equal grimness. And may Hamon of Blackleith die knowin’ ‘twas ye as takes his life.

The boy’s jaw hardened with the remembered insult of Lord Hamon’s spittle on his face. Even now, more than a month later, the usurper’s taunts rang in his ears. He’d been a fool to sue in King David’s court for what was his, for there was none to listen to the boy against the man. Hamon of Blackleith owed twenty knights in service, while the dispossessed Giles of Moray had naught to offer. Never again, he reflected bitterly, would he go before lord or king to beg justice. Justice was taken, not given, by those who would fight for it.

He looked up to the clouds that traveled across the moon, then back to where the carts had rolled to a stop. We have God’s blessing, for He stays the rain, he decided.

Aye.

The boy twisted in his saddle to address those behind him. Every man will take two brands unlit, he ordered tersely. Archers, soak your wrapped arrows. His gaze moved down the motley line to where a man prepared to fire the vats of pitch in the carts, and he shook his head. Nay, I’d have all in readiness first, Hob. I’d not give them time to raise a defense once we are seen. We are not enough to stand and fight, he reminded the toothless one. Nudging his horse now to ride back amongst his men, he kept his voice low. Lang Gib, he addressed one, I’d have you cover the archers whilst they take to the trees above. ’Twill be Wat’s task to supply the arrows. And Willie and Evan will ride beneath, holding their brands high to light them.

He spoke quickly, issuing orders throughout the line as seasoned warriors watched and listened, nodding their assent. The plan had been proposed and settled earlier, but Giles meant to leave nothing to chance. Swift execution was everything—to hesitate would ensure defeat.

One by one, the men dipped the wrapped ends of their torches into the thick pitch. Led by Hob, the archers moved silently to the trees that spread nearly to the malodorous moat. Leaves rustled as they climbed to posts within firing distance of the wooden wall. It was not until the toothless one gave the raven’s call that the rest moved into place.

Two columns of mounted men separated to ring the wall, while a small group led by the bastard Will of Dunashie positioned themselves in the trees just beyond the raised drawbridge, ready to cut down any who would flee. Above, along the timbered walk, a lone sentry carried a horn lantern, its flame flickering like a distant star, to peer over the side. It was as though they held a collective breath until he moved toward the other end.

Finally the boy nodded, and Willie rode back to where the hot coals were held within the vented iron kettle. Lifting the lid, he thrust his brand within, holding it until the pitch caught. At the same time, an archer’s unwrapped arrow hit its target and the sentry fell, his feeble cry muted by the splash as he hit the foul water.

Within two minutes the trees were alight with flaming arrows. The boy spurred his horse, shouting loudly, clearly to the sleeping keep, Hamon of Blackleith, ’tis Giles of Moray come to claim Dunashie! It was the signal to loose the hail of fire into the thatch roofs within.

Grasping his own torch, Giles rode the length of the wall, to where Willie had said the animals were kept. Rising in his stirrups, he flung the burning brand over the side. The mercenaries who followed him threw theirs also, until the curling smoke revealed a dozen or more fires started within. They circled and yelled, giving an impression of greater numbers than they were.

On the other side, the straw in the animal pens caught almost immediately, giving rise to the frightened bleating of sheep and the neighing of horses caught behind a fast-rising sheet of fire. Already the thatch had caught on nearly every roof from granary to tower. Angry shouts mingled with frantic screams as those within scrambled from their pallets, some to fight the blazes, others to mount a hasty defense.

The pitch carts moved closer and a villein dipped brands and fired them, passing them to those who rode by. The flaming torches arched through air to fall behind the walls, and soon the night was filled with smoke and noise. The few valiant defenders who struggled to the wall walks were either cut down or forced to retreat in the face of the flaming brands.

Amid the cries and shouts, the drawbridge began to creak downward as men mounted hastily within. Above the awful din Giles called to Hob, Now!

The cart rolled forward as though it would cross the bridge to meet those coming out, and just as the wooden platform struck the iron pilings that supported it, Hob pushed the vat over, spilling the pitch onto the bridge. Willie leaned from his horse to fire it, and those who would ride out faced flames that shot several feet upward. Panicked horses reared while men cursed.

Giles recognized Hamon of Blackleith, his huge girth outlined in the hot orange wall. He rode to the edge of the burning bridge, taunting the usurper, shouting, Behold the boy you dispossessed is become a man! Use your spit to put out the fire!

The older man’s face contorted with rage, and in his fury he spurred his horse to leap the flames. His sword flashed, its blade catching the glow of the disintegrating bridge. For a moment the animal appeared to lose its footing, but in its fright it managed to scramble onto the bank. Hamon, leaning from his saddle, swung so wide he nearly unseated himself, but the boy managed to sway away as he lifted his borrowed shield. The blow glanced off.

Sweat and soot streaked the older man’s face beneath his helmet, but his eyes betrayed his contempt for Giles of Moray. Ye’ll not live to take it! he snarled. Ye’ve built yer funeral pyre!

But even as he spoke the bridge behind him collapsed, cutting off any aid. Nay, you’ll not live to keep it, Giles countered. ’Tis you and I, Hamon of Blackleith—there is no king here to rule for you. He rode closer and spat into the older man’s face. I return what you gave me, Hamon, and take what is mine.

Whoreson cur! Hamon rose, leaning forward in his saddle to slash at the boy furiously. I paid gold to see you dead!

He’d misjudged Giles’ reach. As the boy lifted his shield over his left arm, he counterswung the broad-axe he favored with his right, catching the older man below the rib cage, cutting him cleanly from his side to his belly. A bellow of rage died in a scream as Hamon of Blackleith fell from his horse.

Giles dismounted to stand over the man who’d stolen his patrimony. Hamon’s face exposed his agony and his fear as Giles’ eyes moved to the gaping wound. There was no question that he would die within the hour from it.

I’d be shriven, he gasped. I’d have God’s mercy. In the name of the Virgin, I’d have a priest.

For answer, Giles picked up the fallen man’s sword, placed it over his breastbone, and drove it home. Hamon’s body seemed to stiffen, then fell limp, and his head lolled. A trickle of blood drooled from his mouth. For a long moment Giles looked downward. Nay, Hamon, he said softly, ’tis all the mercy you will have of me. I’d see your soul in hell ere I’d call a priest for you.

When he turned around, Willie was watching. Wordlessly, Giles turned into his embrace, clasping him with bloody hands. Tears streamed down the giant’s face when Giles looked into it.

I have brought you home, Will—Dunashie is ours.

I never doubted ye would—never. The bastard of Dunashie stepped back to smile crookedly at the boy he’d served for sixteen years. ’Tis yers, my lord.

Aye. Giles swung around to survey the flames that licked the night sky. And there’ll be none to want it now.

’Tis a lesson fer ye—when ye build it again, make it stone.

The archers had ceased firing, and the riders had gathered silently to watch the ancient fortress disintegrate into an inferno. The shouts and the frantic screams of the people caught within had ceased, and now the only sounds were the crackling flames and the settling of charred logs.

Lang Gib prodded several sullen people, their faces grimed with soot, forward toward Giles of Moray. A young girl of twelve or so years, her wet clothes scorched, cringed before him, her eyes betraying her terror.

They jumped through the flames into the ditch, my lord, Gib told him. Tis all as survives.

Giles faced the girl grimly. You are of Hamon’s family?

She shook her head mutely, then covered her soot-streaked face with small hands, as she began to shake uncontrollably. A man behind her shouted furiously at Giles.

They be all dead—Lady Margaret—aye, and her bairns with her! Burned in their beds by ye! May ye perish in hell fer it!

Despite the surge of remorse he felt, Giles’ jaw hardened. As though he could justify what he had done, he turned again to the girl. Nay, demoiselle, but he took what was mine. But she would not look at him. Looking to another survivor, he asked curtly, How many were inside?

Forty—nay, forty-one. There was a man of Creighton here also. The man’s eyes accused him. But we are all now.

Any of his blood?

Ye’ve murdered all, may God take ye fer it.

Despite the mud and soot that clung to the girl, she was more than passably pretty. Giles reached a hand to lift the wet hair that clung to her face. If you are not of his family, why are you here, demoiselle? he asked gently.

She was betrothed ter Dunashie’s heir, the man behind her answered for her. But the boy perished also.

The girl choked back a sob as she raised her eyes to Giles. Do you k-kill m-me also?

Nay. ’Tis done with Hamon, and I’d send you back to your father. He started to turn away, then swung back abruptly. How are you called, demoiselle?

Aveline—Aveline de Guelle.

If you mourn Hamon’s son, I am sorry for it.

Nay, but I mourn them all, she answered in little more than a whisper.

The elation of victory faded as his eyes traveled to the burning wall. The stench of cooked flesh brought home the enormity of what he’d done. Had there been another way, he would have taken it. For a moment, his face betrayed the guilt that already weighed on his soul.

The giant that knew his thoughts better than any reached a comforting hand to his shoulder. The guilt is Hamon’s, may God curse him, fer ‘twas he as stole Dunashie from ye.

Giles nodded grimly, then squared his shoulders manfully. Willie, we will have to sleep without. I pray you will make a tent to shelter Lady Aveline, and on the morrow I will send her home. As for the others, let them go where they will.

He walked away, leaving them to stare after him. As Willie led the girl away, he heard one of those who survived raise his voice to him. Butcher! the fellow spat out. Art naught but a butcher! May ye burn in hell for this!

And it was as though something broke inside of Giles. He swung around. Will, he said evenly, hang him.

Nay! the man cried. Ye’ve no cause! King David—

Giles’ black eyes went cold. You fought against your rightful lord—’tis reason enough.

Hours later, as he walked the smoking ruin of his patrimony, the boy tried not to think of those who’d died there. Despite the fact that they’d already been buried in a hastily dug pit beneath what had been the chapel floor, the awful smell was still in the air. And that, coupled with the charred carcasses of sheep and horses, was more than he could bear. His throat tightened painfully as he saw what he had done.

The stone tower still stood, its wooden floors gone save for the burnt ends of the supporting beams. And the sky shone through a blackened fringe of thatch. He walked within and looked upward, seeing the crucifix still affixed to what must have been Lady Margaret’s private chapel. His boots crushed the rubble beneath his feet. He looked down and saw the carved ivory figure of Christ in his mother’s arms. Stooping, he rubbed the greasy soot from the Virgin Mary’s face, then he laid it gently again amid the smouldering refuse.

Walking outside again, he crossed the blackened courtyard to the main chapel, where all that remained was, oddly enough, the soot-covered altar rail and part of the cabinet that had held the host. The ground over the newly made graves was soft beneath his feet. He knelt, his knees sinking into the dirt, and tried to pray in the eerie emptiness, but there were no words capable of expressing the pain he felt. In his anger, he’d burned his own keep rather than let another man hold it. And innocent ones, those who served without choice, had died unshriven in the flames.

What had the man said? May God consign you to hell for it. He closed his eyes, his mouth forming the words of contrition, but no sound came, possibly because he could find no regret for Hamon of Blackleith. There was still a bitter gall within him that could not forgive the usurper of his birthright, there was still the damning knowledge that, despite the terrible cost, he’d do it again for the satisfaction of seeing Lord Hamon dead at his feet.

Finally, he looked down at the common grave beneath his knees. Father, receive the innocents into your care—’tis all I ask, he said before he rose.

Outside, Willie waited for him. I sent Lang Gib and two others ter take the girl ter her father.

Aye.

There’s much to be done, the giant offered soberly.

Aye.

But ye be lord of Dunashie, and there’s none alive as can dispute it. ’Tis yer birthright.

Aye, ’tis my patrimony, and I mean to keep it, Giles agreed grimly. As long as I breathe, I’ll not yield it. No matter what I win for myself, no matter what I hold, Will—I am lord of Dunashie above all else.

I brought ye his sword. I thought mayhap ye’d be knighted with it. As he spoke, Willie held it up.

Giles took it, balancing the weight in his hand, testing the golden, wire-wrapped grip. Aye, he answered. Lifting it above him so that the tang and quillon formed the Cross before the sun, he swore, Afore God, I will raise Dunashie again on this place, for myself and for mine heirs, that it will stand again in stone.

Bold words for a youth whose tattered woolen tunic belied any worth at all, and yet as Willie watched him his eyes misted. Nay, he was going to have to stop thinking of Giles like that, for the fire that had consumed Dunashie had in truth made the boy a man.

Chapter One

Castle of Rivaux, Normandy:

Christmas Day, 1137

I, Richard of Rivaux, Lord of Celesin, of my own free will take thee, Gilliane de Lacey of Beaumaule, to wife—to have, to hold in joy and adversity so long as we both shall live. I so swear.

His voice carried richly, strongly throughout the chapel, drowning out the storm that raged without. His flecked brown eyes were warm as they looked upon the girl who stood beside him. Smiling through a mist of tears, she nodded, then responded in kind.

Facing the chaplain just inside the chapel door, she spoke, her voice shaking with suppressed emotion. I, Gilliane de Lacey, Lady of Beaumaule, take thee, Richard of Rivaux, for my husband, to have and to honor, to love and to keep, until the end of my life. I so swear.

Father, I’d ask God’s blessing on this marriage, Richard murmured, reminding the priest of his duty.

As Father Gervase raised his hands, they knelt at his feet: the tall, splendid young lord, his black hair gleaming beneath the hastily lit candles, and the richly gowned girl, her copper hair spread over her shoulders as though she came to him a maid.

Elizabeth of Rivaux watched them with an uncharacteristic lump in her throat, her own thoughts harkening to another very different wedding years before. While her brother and Gilly wed hastily and without benefit of the banns being cried, she herself had married Ivo, heir to the Count of Eury, with as much pomp and splendor as befitted the daughter of Count Guy of Rivaux. Yet as she witnessed Richard’s and Gilly’s obvious happiness in each other, Elizabeth could not suppress the pang of envy she felt.

Her brother had dared much to wed where he loved, and Gilliane had paid dearly for loving him, more than any beyond their family would ever know. There would be many unable to understand how he, Rivaux of Celesin, heir to one of the wealthiest families in Normandy and England, could have taken a knight’s daughter. By rights, he should have wed into another landholding family as she herself had done.

For a moment Elizabeth dared to wonder what it must be like to be loved like that, what it must be like to have a husband who would defy King and Church to share her bed. And then she dismissed the thought, for it did not bear thinking. It was Eleanor of Nantes or Catherine of the Condes or Gilliane de Lacey who wed where they were loved. Not Elizabeth.

Her own marriage had been so very different—a hell from which she’d escaped gratefully. No, there had been no love between her and Ivo, and his open disgust of her had humiliated her pride, turning her hopes into nothing less than hatred for him and his family. Oh, how Ivo’s father had misled hers in his eagerness for that bond of blood with the family of Rivaux. Aye, he’d been all smiles and flattery to her, allowing her parents to think she’d be as valued at Eury as her mother was at Rivaux. And all the while, he’d known. Even if she could have forgiven all else, she would never forgive that. He’d known.

Instead, she’d been a homesick fifteen-year-old girl, who’d discovered too late the secret that even now, a full seven years later, she’d been too ashamed to share with anyone. But she had escaped from Eury, thanks to her only brother, for when news had arrived of Ivo’s death Richard had ridden out forthwith to bring her home. And Count Reyner, despite his protests of great affection for his dear daughter of Rivaux, had had to let her go. His dear daughter, she thought bitterly—’twas a cruel jest at best.

And now she lived in her father’s house a widow, supposedly barren. She was neither wife nor maid, the object of much speculation and, she suspected, more than a little pity. It did not matter, she told herself fiercely—she was Guy of Rivaux’s daughter, and naught could ever change that. In her veins flowed the best blood to be had in Normandy and England, blood good enough to mingle with that of the highest families.

The babe in her lap stirred restlessly, reaching out to where Richard and Gilly now sat listening to their wedding Mass. Elizabeth smoothed the bright copper hair and whispered, Be still, little one, ‘twill soon be done.

The child looked up with eyes as green as her own, then turned to pull at Elizabeth’s baudekin veil. Richard ought to have legitimatized this babe born of his love, but Elizabeth knew full well why he did not. To have done so would have brought further shame to Gilliane, and little Amia of Beaumaule already bore another man’s name. Still, it was a pity that the beautiful child could never be fully acknowledged as bearing the blood of Rivaux.

Amia fretted, squirming to be set down, drawing curious stares from those who crowded the small chapel, a host of Normandy’s magnates and Count Guy’s lesser vassals come to his Christmas court and table. What tales they would carry home this time—that Guy had renounced his oath to King Stephen—and that his heir had surprised them all by wedding the widow of a lowly liege man. And there would be those who were not pleased with either choice.

Guy reached for the babe, who squealed in Elizabeth’s arms, but Elizabeth shook her head. Rising, she carried Amia outside. Let her papa savor Richard’s happiness with him, let him celebrate not only the wedding, but also the newfound understanding between father and son. Too soon they would have to leave, to fight, mayhap to die in support of England’s rightful queen. But for now, ‘twas Christmas, and they were all together, a family united at last.

As the cold wind hit their faces, Amia shrieked in protest. Nay, poppet, Elizabeth spoke against the babe’s ear, you and I shall discover a honey cake ere they are all eaten.

The snow swirled in the courtyard, veiling the villeins who huddled around small, sheltered fires. The wind caught the baudekin veil, whipping it from her head, sending it skimming lightly over the snow. A toothless villein scampered after it, then caught up to her, holding out the shimmering gossamer in his dirty hands.

My lady … He dropped to his knees, scarce daring to raise his eyes to her.

Others left their fires to crowd around her, many bending deep in the snow to offer their obeisance. She nodded graciously, taking her veil from the man’s outstretched hands.

I give you my thanks, she said, shifting Amia to reach into the pouch that hung from her golden girdle. Taking out a small silver coin, she pressed it into his palm. He kissed the hem of her gown where it brushed over the snow, and a murmur of approval spread through the courtyard.

This was what it meant to be born of the blood of Rivaux—this was the due of her birthright. There was not a man in all of Normandy who did not love, admire, or fear Guy of Rivaux. Even those who thought he’d grown too powerful still acknowledged the greatness of what he had done, for had not he been the one to capture the hated Robert of Belesme? And although it had been a quarter of a century since, they still honored Count Guy and his family for the deed.

Shivering against the cold, she held Amia closer and made her way to the hall. Like the courtyard, it too was crowded with those who came to share Christmas with their overlord. It was, Elizabeth reflected, as though they sensed ’twould perhaps be the last one of any peace in Stephen’s troubled lands.

Once inside, she set the child down whilst she stamped her feet and shook the snow from her rich, deep-blue samite gown. It was then that she noted Count Reyner watching her, his eyes taking in the gold and jewelry she wore, and a chill of apprehension sliced through her. Reminding herself that she was at Rivaux rather than Eury, she stopped to scoop Amia into her arms, then with head held high, she sought to pass him without so much as a nod.

He stepped in front of her, making it impossible to ignore him. Would you not acknowledge your father by marriage? he demanded. Here now—how’s this? A kiss of peace at the least, daughter.

The bond of blood between us died with Ivo, my lord, she answered coldly.

Nay, but I’d not think it so. Four years you spent in my house, Elizabeth.

He spoke for the benefit of those around them, and she knew it. Even now, there was a certain malevolence in his eyes that gave the lie to his words. Yet as tempted as she was to speak her mind, she somehow managed to hold her tongue. He was, after all, much to her displeasure, a guest at Rivaux. And he was also a count of Normandy, and the Empress would need a levy of him also.

Alas, my lord, but you find me surprised you are come here, she answered.

The alliance between our families is of long standing, my lady, and if Guy has need of me, I do not mean to let past differences divide us.

The past differences were her dowry and her return to Rivaux. After the four years of her marriage to his son, he’d been able to keep nothing of the dowry, not that he had not tried. Ivo had not been laid beneath the chapel floor ere he’d tried to push her into his nephew’s arms.

You will fight for the Empress? she asked with chill politeness.

As to that, I am uncertain. He bent his grizzled head closer and smiled to reveal blackened teeth. My nephew Ralph sends his greetings, saying he would see you again at Eury. I’d support a dispensation and affirm the bond of blood again between us.

Nay, I am content here.

For a moment his light brown eyes were almost yellow, reminding her of an old but still dangerous wolf. Amia looked at him, then tightened her arms about Elizabeth’s neck. He stepped back, smiling still. Then ’tis our task to persuade your father, is it not?

I do not wed again, my lord, she responded stiffly. You forget we are agreed that I am barren.

His smile faded quickly. I forget nothing, Elizabeth. Nothing.

It was not until she was well past him that she realized her palms were damp. Shivering from more than the cold, she hastened toward the tower stairs. And as she reached them, she could hear him confide to someone in a much lower voice, My son was wont to say she was as useless as a gelding for breeding: overtall, overweening, ill-tempered—and fruitless withall.

Years of bitterness made the bile rise into her throat. Holding Amia more closely, she forced herself to continue up the stairs. If Reyner of Eury did not hold his tongue, his would not be the only one to wag, she promised herself. But even as she thought it, she knew it was not true. If she could not even bring herself to confess her shame to a priest, she did not think she could tell anyone of Ivo.

It was a strange Christmas feast, remarkable both for those who stayed away and for those who came. Some of the greatest magnates in Normandy, those who’d broken their oaths to Mathilda rather than stomach her Angevin husband, now stood ready to take up her standard. And full half of those in attendance at Rivaux came to plot rebellion against the usurper who sat on England’s throne. But for now the given reason for the company, should Stephen hear of it, would be Richard’s rather hasty wedding.

Elizabeth shared a trencher with William d’Evreux, a short, solidly built man, who was obviously very much in awe of her, for he stared openly. She retaliated by ignoring him, turning her attention instead to her brother.

Do you take Gilly to Celesin?

Richard shook his head. Nay, I’d leave her here with Maman, for Rivaux is the stronger keep. Even as he spoke, his hand stroked his wife’s copper hair. When it becomes known I have renounced Stephen, there will be many to challenge me.

Aye.

For a moment Gilliane’s eyes betrayed her fear, then she turned away. I’d speak not of war on my wedding day, Richard.

Instantly, Elizabeth was sorry she’d reminded either of them of the coming conflict. ‘Twas a time for rejoicing rather than sadness, after all, for he’d arrived home but that morning. Instead, she leaned in front of her brother to speak to Gilly, teasing her.

There’ll be no need for mulled wine to warm your blood this night, I’ll warrant.

The younger girl blushed.

Liza …

Well, you have not been kept awake whilst she turns, Richard. I vow she has scarce slept for a fortnight, first because she thought you’d come, then because she feared you would not. Elizabeth’s green eyes warmed as she smiled. Aye—’twill be the first rest I have had since Papa rode in without you this last time.

On the other side of William d’Evreux, Joanna looked up hopefully. Maman said I could share your bed if Gilly left it.

Well, Maman did not have the right of that, Elizabeth retorted. Tonight I sleep alone.

But Maman—

Nay.

But Eleanor is all elbows! the girl wailed. And she makes noise when she sleeps.

When you are the eldest left at home, then you may have a bed to yourself.

As if ’twill ever happen! Hawise says you will shrivel and die here. Joanna’s hand flew to her mouth as she realized what she’d said. Your pardon, Liza … I did not mean …

But Elizabeth merely shrugged. Better to die at Rivaux than elsewhere.

Nay, lady, ’tis the lot of a woman to be a wife, William protested. And you are yet young enough to—

Be a brood sow? she finished for him contemptuously. Nay, I think not. Besides, who’s to have a barren wife?

Mayhap the fault was Ivo of Eury’s, he ventured hopefully. Your father—

Gives me choice in the matter.

But you mourn overlong, Lady Elizabeth. Ivo died three years and more ago, and—

And you think I mourn him? she demanded with an incredulous lift of one black brow. Nay, I was glad he died.

He stared into green eyes that had grown as cold as shards of glass, and a shiver went through him. For a moment he almost believed she meant what she said. She was a strange woman, Elizabeth of Rivaux—like none he’d ever seen. Yet, try as he would, he could not help watching her, drawn to her incredible beauty despite what was said of her.

Deliberately, she turned her attention to the food on their trencher, stabbing at a piece of venison with her knife, ignoring him. He leaned back, and tried to listen to the discussion that raged between two of Rivaux’s liege men over whether the greed of the Empress’s Angevin husband was preferable to Stephen’s misrule.

But he found his attention returning almost immediately to the girl at his side. At twenty-two she ought to have been well past her youth, but she was not. Unlike so many who’d wed at twelve or thirteen, borne babes yearly and thickened, she was still slender and lithe.

And long-limbed. Aye, she was taller than any female of his memory—taller than most men in Normandy. But her features were as fine and straight as her beautiful mother’s, and her hair was as black as Guy of Rivaux’s—as black as a raven’s wing, the bards claimed when they wrote songs of her. Even as he noted it, it shimmered in the torchlight and spilled over her rich gown like a mantle of black silk. It was so beautiful that it did not matter that she wore it unbound like a maiden’s. He drank deeply of his wine and allowed himself to imagine it spilling over a pillow. His eyes traveled lower to where her gown clung to the curve of her breasts, and he wondered if her body was as flawless as her face.

His mouth was so dry he had to drink again, and still he could not tear his eyes from her. And he wondered how she could possibly be barren. Aye, there was the rub. Even if Count Guy would give her, even if she brought gold and land, he’d not be able to keep it if she did not breed. And still he’d have her, for there was none to compare. Besides, Avisa had presented him with two strong sons ere she passed from this earth before her time. So he could afford the gamble.

As if she knew his thoughts, Elizabeth reached for the cup they were supposed to share, and looking over the rim, her green eyes met his. Do not think to wed with me, my lord, she told him coldly. I’d give you grief. Draining the cup she set it down, then arose, nodding to Richard and Gilliane, saying quite deliberately, He puts me off my food with his gaping.

Your pardon, my lady, but— William’s breath was wasted, for she’d brushed past him, leaving him to a filled trencher. Jesu, but what ails her? he asked her brother.

She’d not wed again, Richard answered.

Yet she is in need of a husband—Count Guy cannot live forever. She should have a man to master that tongue of hers, William protested.

For a moment, Richard of Rivaux’s strange flecked eyes were more gold than brown. And a slow, lazy smile warmed his face as he turned to watch his sister pass from the great hall. Elizabeth is not like any other, he said simply. She is more Cat than our mother.

Still, I’d take her.

He will not give her where she is not willing.

William’s gaze followed his. Have any asked? he wanted to know.

Every widower with a son has approached my father.

These are troubled times, my lord, William reminded him. Count Guy will have need of allies, and there can be no greater surety than a bond of blood between families.

Elizabeth would give you no peace.

I’d beat that tongue out of her.

Richard’s flecked eyes darkened. Very deliberately, he speared a chunk of meat with his knife. Nay, you would not. Even Ivo dared not beat her. His gaze held William’s, sending a shiver down his spine. I’d kill the man who would harm Elizabeth—and so would my father.

Chapter Two

What think you of William d’Evreux? Catherine of the Condes asked casually.

Elizabeth looked up guiltily, caught in straining to hear the heated dispute below. I think him short and stupid, she answered her mother. Why?

He asks your father for you.

Then he is a fool also.

Catherine viewed her daughter with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. "Liza, one

Reviews for The Fire and the Fury

[benn9314 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A great history of early days in Europe and their customs